


And Dance

by RageSeptember



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Handcuffs, M/M, Reichenbach AU, Ship all the ships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:25:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RageSeptember/pseuds/RageSeptember
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a development neither genius have predicted or planned for Sherlock stops Jim from killing himself on the rooftop of St Bart's. Things get very complicated very quickly after that...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End (Is Where We Start)

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: though the fic will eventually turn into Sheriarty, Johnlock, Johmlock and MorMor, this first chapter is fairly innocent as far as romantic or sexual entanglements go. Just so that you're not disappointed.

It is the end of the story, and it is an end carefully scripted. Mapped out, planned down to every last detail. The grand finale, a very special show in London for this night only, one final curtain call, and that will be all she wrote, _ciao, Sherlock Holmes_. 

It all changes in the flash of an eye and the time it takes for a shot not to be fired. 

Then there is this: a curse, a gun clattering to a rooftop, one man tackling another to the hard concrete surface, and the world is different. 

Not an ending, then. A beginning, and this story has no script. 

\--- 

When Sherlock finally – _finally_ – called, John picked up before the first signal had sounded. 

“Sherlock, where _are_ you? What’s going on?” 

“The rooftop of S:t Bart’s. I need you to come immediately. Bring a pair of handcuffs.” Sherlock’s voice was strained. 

“A pair of _handcuffs_? What are you - ? Why do you - ?” A sigh. “Never mind. I’m outside, I’ll be up in fifteen minutes. Hospital security should be able to lend me a pair of cuffs.” 

“Two.” 

“Sorry, what?” 

“ _Two_. Bring _two_ pairs. And come alone.” 

“… Fine. Be right up.” 

“ _Hurry._ ” 

\--- 

“Handcuffs? Really. Sherlock, I love the thought, but kinky games won’t save your friends, you know. Clock’s ticking, and – _Careful!_ ” Moriarty’s drawl (and isn’t that just the right word, the part of Sherlock’s brain that never stopped noticing things, observing them, muttered) was interrupted by a muted groan as Sherlock pushed his knee a little harder into the small of the man’s back. “Go easy on the coat.” 

“You are going to call off your assassins, and you’re going to do it now.” Sherlock’s voice was perfectly calm, perfectly confident, and perfectly unconcerned with the state of Moriarty’s coat. 

“And why on God’s green earth would I do that? I told you, dear, you can torture me all you want, but there – “ 

The sound Sherlock made was somewhere between a snort and a dark chuckle. “Oh, don’t be _obvious_. I’m not going to torture you. Well, I’m not going to tie you up and push needles in under your nails, at any rate.” He leaned in, careful not to loosen his grip on the other’s wrists even for a moment, and whispered in Moriarty’s ear: “But you will suffer.” Theatrical, yes, but as much as he had tried to deny it to John in the past, Sherlock had never lacked for dramatic flair. And Moriarty, if anyone, would know to appreciate that. 

“You terrify me, Sherlock, you really do. You make me quiver with – “ 

Again, the detective interrupted the other by pushing his knee in harder, and twisting Moriarty’s left arm to the point just short of dislocation. A sharp intake of breath, a spasmodic tremor in the shoulders; nothing else revealed the other’s discomfort. For all the protests and noise Moriarty made he might as well have been reclining on a sofa, and not forcibly held down, one cheek bloody already from being pressed against the rough concrete roof. “I ought to terrify you. I _am_ you, don’t you remember? I know you. I know that pain doesn’t scare you, and that death doesn’t either. But what if I was to keep you alive, if I was to keep you safe and sound for years and years to come, never allowing you to die, but make you less than you are? What if I was to quench that raging fire of your mind, and leave you with nothing but a barren wasteland?” 

Moriarty was listening, raptly; Sherlock could tell from the way the other held himself perfectly still, the way his breaths came too quick and too shallow. Before the man had time to regroup and offer a spell-breaking retort, Sherlock added: “A lobotomy. Not that complicated a procedure, medically speaking, I’m sure John can have us set up for it in less than half an hour. You won’t feel a thing, and when you’ wake up you won’t be bored anymore. You won’t be anything, just a mindless sheep, no will of your own, no interest or desire. You’ll be happy enough – or at least unable to understand the horror of your existence. Though I’d like to think that some part of you will still remain, locked away in the back of your mind, trapped and itching, and that part will always know what you have lost, and it will never stop screaming.” 

It took Moriarty several long moments to respond, and when he did his voice was strained; Sherlock was somewhat taken aback by the sheer, vicious satisfaction he found in that. “And if I call them off, the assassins? What happens then? You’ll let me go on my merry way, no hard feelings?” There was a hint of scorn, or ridicule, in the last sentence, and Sherlock couldn’t tell if it was genuine or just Moriarty trying to regain control over the conversation. “I don’t respond well to threats, Sherly, never have. What’s in it for me?” 

Sherlock let out a long breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “You get to watch me dance.” 

\--- 

By the time John reached the rooftop his heart was beating much too hard. Not from the exertion of running up the stairs at full speed – even as a civilian, he had been careful to keep in shape, and life with Sherlock was far from leisurely – but from fear of what he might find up there. 

And what he found was this: Sherlock, kneeling over Moriarty, holding the consulting criminal down. It explained the need for handcuffs, John supposed, but not much of anything else. “What’s going on?” 

The relief on Sherlock’s face was as startling as it was unusual in its undisguised purity, but when the detective spoke his voice had that matter of fact quality that sometimes made John itch to punch the other: was there _nothing_ that ever got to the man? (Though that was unfair, because John has seen Sherlock rattled and shaken and scared, and what sort of friend was he that he should ever long for that?) 

“Moriarty planned to make me commit suicide by having arranged for you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to be killed if I didn’t,” Sherlock said with all the ardour of a man describing the way to the post office. “When I realized that I could force him to call off the assassins rather than play along he tried to kill himself to remove that option.” A glance at the discarded gun a few meters away. “He failed, and now we’ve reached an agreement wherein he has ordered his men to stay down and I won’t have him lobotomized.” 

While speaking, Sherlock had forced Moriarty – who was listening to the story with half a smile, his upper lip stained with blood and the left cheek scraped and bruised – to his feet, motioning for John to cuff the man’s wrists together in front of him. The doctor complied without protest, though the urge to flinch away from Moriarty was as strong as the urge to punch him. “Okay. Right. Uh… good?” He looked up at Sherlock, very careful not to meet Moriarty’s dark eyes. “We are taking him to the police?” 

Moriarty tut-tutted. “Don’t be boring, Johnny boy. I don’t think Sherlock _likes_ it when you’re _boring_.” 

“Shut up,” Sherlock said sharply, giving the shorter man a little shove. “Or I _will_ gag you.” 

Moriarty did shut up, although he made a face that spoke eloquently of ‘oh my’ and ‘I should have known you liked it rough’ and ‘Sherlock, dear, not in front of John’. The bastard had the most ridiculously expressive face, John thought with no small measure of resentment. And even like this, cuffed and bruised, the man managed to look as if he was exactly where he wanted to be. An act. It had to be an act. But it was a damned good one. “We are taking him to the police, right? We can get your name cleared.” 

Sherlock didn’t quite look him in the eye, and John had a sudden, sinking feeling that things were just about to get very, very complicated – and dangerous. “We’re not taking him to the police,” Sherlock said slowly. “He’s coming with us.”


	2. If I've Got You

John wasn’t sure about this. He _really_ wasn’t sure about this, and he had already told Sherlock so several times, but just on the off-chance that the man had failed grasp the seriousness of the doctor’s objections he tried again: “We’re on the run from the police because Moriarty – who wants you to commit suicide, I might add – has everyone convinced that you’re behind the kidnapping of those poor kids, and you want us to go hide in one of _his_ safe houses?” 

“Last place the police will look,” Sherlock said, not for the first time. In the back of Molly’s car – commandeered without her knowledge, although Sherlock had insisted that she would be quite happy to help in any way she could – the detective looked more relaxed than John had seen him in the last 24 hours. He also had a distant look on his face, as was his mind a hundred miles away. 

_Most likely dreaming up some ridiculously clever scheme to achieve God knows what_ , John thought uncharitably as he gave the other man a hard look in the rearview mirror. “It’s not the last place Moriarty’s people will look,” he pointed out. “There could just as well be a bunch of them waiting for us when we get there.” 

Moriarty, hands still cuffed both together and – the purpose for which Sherlock had needed the second pair of cuffs – to the detective’s right wrist, snorted derisively, and it was all John could do not to stop the car right there, yank the man out of it and toss him in the bloody Thames. 

John Watson did not easily lose his composure or temper, but he was forced to admit that the small Irishman had an uncanny and deeply disturbing ability to put him on edge. 

Sherlock must have noticed how very close to actually losing it John was, because he said, in what from Sherlock passed as an exceedingly conciliatory tone:  “He won’t have shared the location of the safe house with any of his employees beforehand, because chances are that one day they will be the ones he is running from. Such a treacherous business, crime. And he won’t have had any opportunity to contact anyone after he called off the assassins. I have his phone.” 

Yes, well, perhaps that all made sense, but John didn’t bloody well _trust_ Moriarty, and if the man told them to go to one place that seemed an excellent reason to run in the opposite direction. 

“Turn left here,” Moriarty said, and John turned left without a word, lips pressed tightly together. 

\--- 

The safe house turned out to be a fairly run down two bedroom flat in Watford. It was functionally but cheerlessly furnished; the red of the sofa in the sitting room had faded into some sort of greyish pink, the walls were empty of any paintings or other decorations, and the bed linens smelled faintly of damp. 

It was, all in all, not the sort of place John would have expected Moriarty to choose as his place of hiding, although he suspected the man’s real home – if he even had one – to be quite different. Modern and stylish and minimalistic with state of the art technology in every corner, probably. Or maybe the bastard went for heavy velvet curtains and two-hundred years old mahogany pieces and stolen Rembrandts instead… 

“There’s beans and that sort of stuff in the kitchen cupboard,” Moriarty supplied helpfully as he was forced to follow Sherlock along like a puppy on a leash as the detective went from room to room, opening drawers and wardrobes. “Tea. Bottled water. Condensed – ” 

“Yes, yes, very good, very _thoughtful_ , but where do you keep the mobile?” Sherlock demanded impatiently. “Oh, don’t be so boring,” he added when the only reply Moriarty offered was an innocent widening of his eyes. “I know you’ve got a spare one hidden away somewhere in here, and you know that I know. If making me find it on my own – which I doubt will take more than two minutes – is your best idea of a challenge, I don’t see how a lobotomy would make any difference, really.” 

Moriarty just shrugged. 

\--- 

In the end it had taken Sherlock almost three minutes to find the phone – a Samsung Galaxy SII still in the original packaging and with a pay-as-you-go card attached to it – wrapped in toilet paper and tossed in the bin. By the time he had it put together and charging John was going through the canned food in the cupboards. “I suppose getting take away is out of the question?” he asked, unenthusiastically eyeing a can of corned beef. He was starving but not all that keen on cooking, especially not if he was supposed to share the food with Moriarty. 

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed in a distant voice, obviously more interested in the news report on the telly (“new information suggest that the private detective Sherlock Holmes may have invented several of the crimes he won fame solving”) than on something so shockingly mundane as food. Next to him on the couch Moriarty looked bored. And tired, which took John by surprise, and which he for some reason found deeply disturbing. 

“We need to get Molly’s car back to her,” Sherlock suddenly said. “Lestrade is not a complete idiot, and if he realizes it is missing he will know that it was us that took it.” 

“Well, can’t you just call him? He’s on your side, Sherlock, and now that you can prove that you had nothing to do with – “ 

“I can’t prove it, not yet. It will take a few days, and until then we need to stay clear of the Yard’s hospitality.” Sherlock turned his head and gave John a hard look. “Don’t call him, John. Don’t text him. And not Mycroft either.” 

John snorted. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be calling Mycroft for a while. Did you know it was him? That gave all that information about you to _him_?” He glanced at Moriarty, and was not surprised to see faint smirk play on the consulting criminal’s lips. 

“I’ve gathered that, yes.” If Sherlock felt in the least upset over the fact that his older brother had been happy to share the details of his entire life with a psychopathic criminal mastermind there was no trace of it in his voice. If anything he seemed vaguely amused as he turned to look at Moriarty next to him. “I suppose I should be flattered. How many weeks did you allow yourself to be held captive and beaten just so that you could _burn_ me?” 

“Five,” Moriarty replied easily. “Though really, Sherlock, there’s no need to get all weak in the knees. Do you honestly think a few weeks in government facility _mean_ anything to me? That it could _affect_ me in any way? Don’t be silly, darling. It was no biggie.” 

“Of course not.” Sherlock smiled, and Moriarty smiled back, and that – that right there – made John a hell of a lot more uneasy than Moriarty threatening to blow them up or pulling a gun ever could. The man trying to kill him or Sherlock was bad enough, but these… these moments of some sort of twisted shared understanding or connection between the two men, they made John’s skin crawl. 

They scared him, and John Watson was not scared of much. 

“What about Molly’s car then?” he asked in an attempt to break the… whatever it was that was going on between the others. “Maybe one of your friends from the homeless network…?” He realized that he was still holding the can of corned beef and put it down on the table as he waited for Sherlock to answer. Before the detective had the chance to do so, however, Moriarty spoke up: 

“I can have one of my people do it. He knows how to avoid the police, and he can have the car back to dear Molly without anyone noticing. If we ask nicely he can probably be persuaded to bring some take away when he comes to pick up the car, too,” he added with a cheeky grin in John’s direction. 

The doctor barked a short, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, that’s a brilliant idea, isn’t it? We let your people know exactly where we are, no way that can end badly.” 

“It’ll most likely end badly if we don’t let him know where I am,” Moriarty told him serenely. “He’s… protective, and when he realizes that I have gone missing he won’t stop looking until he finds me. And if he doesn’t know that I’m here of my own free will – more or less – there’s no stopping him from killing you both first and asking questions later.” 

“Tell me, how exactly is this a bad thing, from your perspective?” John demanded. “Hm? Isn’t trying to kill us – or Sherlock, at least – exactly what you’ve been doing?” 

Moriarty gave a long, theatrical sigh. “See, I get why it’d be cute in the beginning, but how do you stand it in the long run, Sherlock? Don’t you ever get tired of having to spell everything out all the time?” 

“Me dying like that won’t fit his story,” Sherlock told John, thankfully ignoring Moriarty completely. “Being murdered will contradict his claim that I am a fraud.” 

“And you promised me a dance,” Moriarty added. 

“That I did.” The detective was quiet for a moment, seeming in deep contemplation. “Have ‘your man’ come over. He can get the car back to Molly, and get rid of our phones as well. With this much media attention it is only a matter of time before the police start tracing them.” 

John opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again. He didn’t trust Moriarty, but he _did_ trust Sherlock, and if he thought this was the best way to do this, then so be it. “Can your man have some curry brought over?” he asked resignedly. 

“Abso-lu-te-ly. He’ll bring you anything you like, Johnny boy.” Moriarty was already fumbling with his phone, having it accepted it from Sherlock’s hand. 

“On speaker, please,” Sherlock said. Moriarty rolled his eyes, but did as he was bid, and soon the ringtone was replaced with a man’s deep, impatient voice: “Boss, where the fuck are you? What happened?” 

“Hello, Tiger. Don’t worry your pretty head, everything is fine. Daddy just needs you to run an errand… “

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than I expected; my apologies. Hopefully the next chapter will be up within the week, but I can make no promises. Thank you so much for reading.


	3. Are You Still Having Fun?

Moriarty’s man, when he arrived, was tall and blonde and looked every bit the killer John fully expected him to be. Not because he was a particularly physically striking man – apart from his height he looked much like someone you might pass in the street without a second glance – but because there was something about the way he moved and spoke that suggested that the civilized façade may crackle at any moment, revealing the unrestrained beast within.

And then there was the fact that he – although he obviously did his best to hide it – seemed _concerned_ for Moriarty rather than terrified of the man. That, John thought, was simply not _natural_. 

“Where is he?” had been the first words out of the man’s mouth when John opened the door about an hour after Moriarty had made the call. 

“Under close observation,” John replied evenly, not moving aside to let the man in. 

The other’s eyes narrowed, but John simply raised an eyebrow, refusing to budge. “Can I see him?” the man finally, reluctantly, asked. 

“Keep your hands where I can see them, and no sudden moves. I am armed.” John stepped aside, and the other pushed past him without another word. 

In the sitting room the detective and the criminal were still seated on the sofa, Sherlock going through Moriarty’s phone while Moriarty watched him with a faint smirk. 

As the tall man stepped inside the sitting room Moriarty looked up, the smirk growing into a winsome grin. “Ah, Moran. How good of you to join us. Give John his curry before the dear boy starves.” 

John realized with an uncomfortable jolt that he recognized the look on the Moran’s face only too well just then; frustration mixed with incredulity mixed with concern. Suddenly he remembered writing a blog post titled The Great Game after he had been kidnapped by Moriarty, speculating about the unseen man holding the rifle being Moriarty’s ‘John Watson’… Had that been this man? 

“Are you okay?” Moran asked, and his voice was very – pointedly so - calm. 

“Peachy,” Moriarty assured him. “Boys, give him your phones, he’ll get rid of them for you. And the car keys, Johnny, there’s a good lad.” 

John grudgingly obliged, as did Sherlock, less grudgingly. The detective was studying Moran with the sort of intense concentration he usually reserved for particularly interesting puzzles. The man didn’t seem to mind, or even notice; his attention was completely focused on Moriarty. “And then?” 

Moriarty made another one of those ridiculous faces. “And then what?” 

“And then what do I do? Once I’ve gotten rid of the phones and returned the car, what do I do then?” 

“That’s really up to you, darling. Read a book. Eat every item on Nano’s menu. Take your new rifle for a test drive.” Moriarty shrugged. “I have no need of your services at this exact moment. I’ll call if that changes.” 

The look on Moran’s face – 

John had to turn his head. It somehow felt indecent watching, as if he was reading someone’s diary or watching them in the shower without them knowing. 

The tall man opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it again, offering a sharp nod instead. “Right. Okay.” He turned to leave, but stopped after throwing a glance at Sherlock and John. “If you hurt him… “ he began, but Sherlock immediately cut him off: “Oh, don’t worry. We won’t.” 

Moran nodded, and started moving towards the door again, but froze when Sherlock added: “We’ll even keep him from trying to kill himself again.” 

Silence. Deafening, charged, dragged out – 

“What are you talking about?” Moran’s voice was flat. 

Sherlock smiled. “When he realized that the only way he could be sure that I wouldn’t beat him was by killing himself, he put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.” The detective glanced at Moriarty, who suddenly seemed strangely withdrawn. Closed off, quiet. “I guess we’re all lucky I’m quick on my feet.” 

Another lengthy silence. Again, it was Moran who broke it. “May I have a word with him in private, please?” 

John would have scoffed, but Moriarty beat him to it. “Please, Moran. They may be idiots, but they’re not as stupid as that.” 

For once, it would seem that John and the consulting criminal was in agreement. 

Only they were both mistaken, apparently, because Sherlock immediately contradicted them: “Oh, no, that’s fine. Go have your chat.” The detective fished the key to the handcuffs out of his pocket, unlocking the ones binding him and Moriarty together. For some reason, he seemed to find this funny, because he was smiling, and John recognized the almost cruel twist to the other’s curled lips. 

Moriarty, on the other hand, didn’t seem at all amused, and when he walked after Moran into the bedroom there was an odd look on his face, almost like – 

\- worry. 

Which was ridiculous. Completely, utterly ridiculous. John turned away from the close door, and headed into the kitchen to fetch some plates for the curry. No matter who brought it, it seemed a shame to let it go to waste. 

Outside the window the heavy rain that started falling half an hour ago had slowed to a drizzle, and in the distance John could see gray clouds give way to clear skies. He tried to take it as a good omen, a sign of the storm soon blowing over, but at the end of the day he was a pragmatic man and not given to such superstitions. To him, weather was just the weather.

“Sherlock, do you want some?” 

But the other didn’t answer, and when John turned to repeat the question he realized that Sherlock was too busy listening to what was going on in the other room to even have heard him. 

No clear words, but the occasional rise and then immediate muffling of the voices speaking of a furious argument, and suddenly the sound of a blow followed by a choked scream and – 

The door to the bedroom was yanked open, and Moran stalked past them without a word. The calm had gone from his face, and it now rather reminded John of the storm clouds outside. Slam! went the front door, and the man was gone, leaving nothing but a faint smell of aftershave, and the uneasy relief of narrowly having escaped certain doom, behind. 

Sherlock immediately headed for the bedroom, returning a moment later with a firm grip around Moriarty’s arm. The shorter man was sporting a blossoming black eye. 

“He punched you in the face?” John asked, delighted. “Your own lackey, he punched you in the face?” 

“Rather more than just a lackey, I suspect,” Sherlock murmured, pushing Moriarty down onto the couch before letting go of him. 

Moriarty tut-tutted. “Always so emotional, Moran. So very physically _expressive_.” The consulting criminal sounded unconcerned, but when John snuck a glance at him a minute later the man was sitting perfectly still, and his eyes were distant and empty, as had the living mind behind them folded in on itself, shutting down. 

Now, wouldn’t _that_ be a relief? 

John cleared his throat, looking to Sherlock. “Curry?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update took forever. Work and uni and Christmas... Ah, well. I'll do my best to have the next chapter up quickly. (Certain scenes from the new episode has me itching with Sheriarty love... ) Oh, and this is not the last we see of Sebastian, never fear!
> 
> By the way, if anyone wants to say hi over on tumblr, I'm keeloca there.


	4. New Age

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day late, but better late than never and all that. Thanks to yaya for spurring me on! <3 
> 
> To reassure any MorMor fans reading this story, I'd like to point out that although they are currently in a pretty bad place, Jim and Sebastian is still very much a thing in this fic. I'm far too fond of our sniper to just forget about him - or let Jim forget about him.

Night fell, and with it a tense silence. They had been watching telly for a while, Sherlock and John exchanging the occasional word while Moriaty remained quiet and still. The curry was gone, the dishes cleaned and John felt utterly exhausted, ready to drop where he sat. Except that wouldn’t do, would it, now that they’d got _company_ – 

“I guess we’ll take turns sleeping,” the doctor eventually offered as the last news story of the genius detective’s disappearance and potential involvement in several crimes came to an end. “I could take first watch, if you wanted to – “ 

“It’s quite all right, John,” Sherlock interrupted, voice as cool and unconcerned as ever. “You take one of the bedroom, we’ll take the other.” 

A pause turned into a prolonged silence. Then: “You’ll take the other.” John’s voice was flat. “ _You’ll_ take the other. You and him.” 

Predictably, Sherlock made that face – that infuriating ‘yes, obviously, why are you pretending to be surprised by this’- face – and John wished, not for the first time, that the man would not be such an utter and complete _ass_. “Not a good idea, Sherlock.” 

“Why not?” 

“Yes, Johnny, why not?” Moriarty sounded annoying alert; perky, even; taunting, and far from the apathetic man they had shared a sofa with for the last couple of hours. 

“Because you’re a deranged psychopath with an unhealthy obsession with Sherlock,” John said, quite levelly (which took no small measure of self-control). “Because you’ve spent God knows how much time and money on making people think Sherlock’s the bad guy in order to get him to kill himself. Because you are violent and cruel and vile.” 

Moriarty made a face. “That’s awfully harsh. Vile, am I? Do you think I’m _vile_ , Sherlock?” 

“Exceedingly,” Sherlock agreed – which ought to have cheered John, but didn’t. Rightly so, as it turned out, because the detectives comment was immediately followed by the man climbing to his feet. “I’ll keep him handcuffed to the headboard. What harm can he do?” 

“What _harm_ \- ? You are joking, right? This is another instance of inappropriate, _not_ very amusing Sherlock humor.” John gestured toward the shorter of the two other men with empathic frustration, as if he his body language might be able to convey what his words seemingly could not. “It’s _Moriarty_.” 

He didn’t know what else to say. It should be enough, by all means, but he could tell from the look on Sherlock’s face that it wasn’t, that it wouldn’t be. 

The thing was… The thing _was_ that as much as he feared for Sherlock’s safety, as much as he didn’t trust the little lunatic Irishman not to go for the detective’s throat with his damned _teeth_ , what concerned him the most was not Moriarty, but _Sherlock_. What truly worried him wasn’t what the consulting criminal was planning, but what the consulting detective might do. 

It’s ridiculous, of course. Sherlock had _a thing_ about not being bored, sure, and he tended to do some rather silly stuff (hah!) to avoid the feeling, but even he couldn’t be so stupid as to… 

_Sherlock... Sherlock, **be careful**. _

 

\---

 

“It is sweet, the way he worries,” Jim Moriarty said, and the way he said he made it entirely clear just how pathetic – how utterly and stupidly _pitiful_ – he thought John’s concern to be. 

Sherlock didn’t rise to the bait. While everything about Moriarty’s casual demeanor and slightly bored tone suggested just how _on top of things_ the consulting criminal felt, cold logic provided that it was _Sherlock_ who was cuffing the other’s right hand to the headboards, the left hand to Sherlock’s right, and so it was _Sherlock_ who was holding all the cards. In control, at the helm, calling the shots – 

Considering the circumstances, it was odd indeed that he should feel so out of his depth. Then again, the consulting criminal did have a unique ability to challenge him and throw him off balance… Part of what made him not boring, and almost the whole of what made him so dangerous. 

Sherlock gave a small, irritable shake of his head, and tossed the flowery bedspread to the side before climbing into bed next to Moriarty. 

The linen smelled faintly of month-old moisture, and felt slightly damp to the touch. The wallpapers of the room had long since faded into an indeterminable green-gray colour, and together with the dark brown bed and nightstand it spoke of little old ladies, traditional aesthetics and times gone by. _  
_

They were both on their backs, side by side and half a meter between them, hands cuffed together. The rain had long since moved on, and the only sounds to be heard was Moriarty’s quick, shallow breathing and Sherlock’s more measured one. 

Only now did Sherlock realize that he was very, very tired. He had not slept for days, too busy playing the game to have any time (or, although he was not keen to admit it, enough peace of mind) to find rest.

Something tugged at Sherlock’s hand, and his eyes flew open when his arm was pulled up and in under Moriarty’s head as the other turned over on his side. 

Silence. The distance between them closed, Moriarty’s back was now pressed against Sherlock’s chest and the detective could feel the smaller man’s

“I don’t like sleeping on my back,” Moriarty told him, and Sherlock could _hear_ that the man was smiling. The innocence in his voice was so very studied, and the detective knew that the Moriarty knew that Sherlock knew it was entirely feigned. _That_ was the joke; _that_ had Moriarty smiling. 

_We were made for each other, Sherlock._   

Sherlock snorted. “If this is an attempt to make me uncomfortable, lobotomizing you would be a waste of time and effort. I have obviously vastly over-estimated your intelligence.”

The smile was still in Moriarty’s voice and on his face as the man turned his head just slightly, catching Sherlock’s gaze. “Oh, _really_? You a bit of _cuddler_ then, Sherlock? Don’t have a problem with climbing into bed with your arch-nemesis?” He giggled, wriggling his arse ever so slightly against the detective’s groin. “Are you lonely, maybe?” he fluted. “Hiding a vulnerable, aching heart behind that cool exterior, _desperate_ for a connection but knowing too damned well that there is _no one_ who can truly understand one, _no one_ to ever share the complete truth of you because there is _no one_ else like you.” The man turned over again, this time to put them face to face and just inches apart. “But _of course_ you aren’t uncomfortable.” 

“No.” Sherlock refused to back down or pull away to create some space between them. This close he could smell Moriarty’s breath, curry mixed with fading mint and something else that had to be the man’s own musk. 

“No?” Moriarty’s grin was that of a cat playing with its prey, gleeful and certain of its victory. 

What happened then was at the same time a complete shock and so entirely predictable that Sherlock didn’t as much as flinch. Perhaps, the part of his mind that never stopped analyzing noted, he had known right from the start that this was where their battle must eventually lead them; to this, or to death – and they had both chosen life earlier that day. 

The kiss was brief, lasting no more than five seconds, but it was searching hunger and triumphant greed and a surging jolt to Sherlock’s stomach. When Moriarty abruptly pulled away, he had to rein in the urge to bring his hand up to touch his lips. 

Moriarty didn’t even bother with pretending to try to disguise the look of eager anticipation on his pale, shadowed face. 

Sherlock scoffed. “Oh, please,” he said, words heavy with disdain even as his lips burned with the memory of the other’s pressing against them. “Don’t be so _obvious_ , Jim.” 

Moriarty’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as the man pulled back just an inch. There was an edge to his voice as he spoke: “Obvious.” 

Sherlock’s smile was cutting and almost cruel, laced with dark triumph. “Obvious, yes. This little _charade_ , pretending that this is about you trying to make me _uncomfortable_ , trying to _confuse_ me, when in reality… “ He leaned in and the second kiss was harder, longer; a struggle of tongues and teeth that left them both breathing faster when the detective pulled away. “ _This_ is what you want. This is what you’ve _always_ wanted.” 

The look in Moriarty’s black eyes was surprise and rage and something else that looked almost like… relief. “Haven’t you got me all figured out then,” he purred. “Well _done_.” And then, as suddenly as all of his changes, the man’s tone turned all business and practical considerations: “No point in acting like it’s one-sided on my part, though. So what are we going to do about this?”


End file.
